


Motionless Mute Angel

by SeekingIdlewild



Series: Hymns for Lost Angels [5]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:45:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekingIdlewild/pseuds/SeekingIdlewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The interface chair could be the key to fulfilling Rush's destiny. But if no one else will sit in it, he'll just have to do it himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silence

 

_Silent sounds you make I know are never mine_   
_Tomorrow has me dreaming of a few more weighted lines_   
_With eyes that shatter tension bring me closer without a word_   
_Motionless mute angel look at me and mute the world_

“Sounds of Silence” by Battleghost

 

* * *

 

Rush stood alone within a halo of light and stared down at the object of his recent obsession. The interface chair was prepped and ready for its first occupant, at once terrifying and inviting in its alien simplicity. In just a moment, he would have the answers to so many of his burning questions, presuming all went well. And if it didn’t… well, that would still be _one_ question answered.

It shouldn’t be him standing here, preparing to take this risk. Logic demanded that one of the humans should do it instead. They were biologically quite similar to the Ancients, so it followed that they would have the best chance of success with Ancient tech of this nature. And any one of them could be more easily spared than Rush if something went wrong. But Rush hadn’t been able to bring Young around to his view on the subject, and his efforts to force Young’s hand had only made him furious.

Rush felt a twinge of discomfort as he recalled the stormy look in Young’s eyes when he’d discovered that Rush had faked the data about the Icarus planet in the archives. The man’s wrath had been palpable, like hot gusts of wind generated by an invisible inferno. And then it had gone cold and hard and immovable, and Young had been keeping Rush at a distance ever since. There had been no late-night talks, no comfortable shared silences, no grooming. Rush had lost Young’s trust, and apparently, his friendship with it. The knowledge that he had only done what he considered necessary in pursuit of his calling did nothing to soothe Rush’s disordered feelings. This estrangement from his only friend was harder than he had imagined.

He was going to have to get used to it, because Young was going to be _really_ angry with him once he found out about Rush’s latest deception.

When Rush had first heard the crack of gunfire from Spencer’s quarters, his first thought had been of bodies in the the mud on a Belgian battlefield. He had reached for his radio unthinkingly, his hands shaking, his stomach churning, his instincts telling him to call for help or to run away, to do anything but walk into that room and survey the carnage for himself. But something had stopped him from reaching out to Young. Maybe it was the memory of the cool rage in Young’s eyes, or maybe it was the realization that there were no further sounds issuing from Spencer’s room. No footsteps. No movement. And maybe he had begun to formulate his plan even then as he stepped forward and opened the door.

Spencer had been alone in the room, and his sidearm still lay on the bed beside him. Suicide. It had been suicide. That realization had cleared Rush’s head, and in that moment, he’d known what he had to do. If he was to access the chair room without someone noticing and attempting to stop him, or worse, calling _Young_ in to stop him, then he would need a distraction. And what could be more distracting than a murder investigation? Spencer had given him exactly the opportunity he needed to use the chair without interference. Rush just had to make the most of it.

The whole crew was now assembled in the gate room, and Rush’s absence had not yet been noticed. It was now or never.

He was immortal. He had nothing to fear. And yet he hesitated, eyeing the electrodes and admitting to himself that he’d rather face almost any other danger than this. _This_ threatened the part of him that he most treasured - his mind. But he didn’t see that he had much choice.

He stepped forward resolutely and sat in the chair.

 

* * *

 

Young sprinted through one of Destiny’s long, deserted corridors and skidded around a corner without any break in speed. His heart was hammering, his thoughts wild and unfocused, his emotions in constant flux between burning anger and horrible, gut-wrenching fear. Crumpled up in his right fist was a single sheet of paper, clearly torn from one of Rush’s notepads and covered in his impatient scrawl. It had been on Rush’s bed, beside a kino and Spencer’s sidearm, and it was addressed to Young.

Young had been waiting with the rest of the crew in the gate room when he’d heard Scott’s voice over the radio, summoning him to Rush’s quarters. That was when Young first realized that he hadn’t actually set eyes on Rush all morning. Was he even in the gate room? There wasn’t time for a thorough search, but Young suspected that Rush had decided to view his orders as optional and keep working instead. That wouldn’t exactly be a change of pace for him. Exasperating as hell, but no cause for alarm.

But when he reached Rush’s room and saw the identical confused and outraged expressions on Scott’s and Eli’s faces, that was when he started to worry. And then Scott showed him the weapon and the kino footage of Spencer’s suicide.

And Rush’s note.

“It’s for you, Sir,” Scott said, holding out the folded piece of paper. “I didn’t read it.”

Eli muttered ominously under his breath as Young accepted the note and opened it. It was just a few lines explaining that Rush had needed a distraction, and why, but that was enough to freeze the blood in Young’s veins.

“What does it say?” Eli asked impatiently. “Why did he do it?”

Young ignored him, already striding toward the door. “Scott,” he barked, “radio TJ and tell her to meet me at the chair room _now_.”

And then he started running.

That had been just a few minutes ago, but already Young had lived through a hundred catastrophic scenarios in his mad dash to the chair room. Was Rush stupid, or just impossibly arrogant? If humans couldn’t use those damn Ancient devices without going crazy and nearly dying, then was there any reason to believe than an angel would fare better? He didn’t know. He couldn’t guess. Rush would not die, at least, but there were many fates worse than death, and Rush had risked all of them for the sake of his calling. Young should have realized that this would be Rush’s next step, but he hadn’t. He’d never imagined that Rush would risk himself in this way.

But he’d told Rush to do it, hadn’t he? Oh fuck, he had. He’d looked Rush in the eye and invited him to do this very thing.

_‘I’m not stopping you, Rush. Go. Sit. Be my guest.’_

He hadn’t meant it. Rush must have known he hadn’t meant it, or he wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble to distract Young with a fake murder before he acted on Young’s poorly considered suggestion.

 _Fuck_. If Rush came out of this with his brain intact, they were going to have a long talk. The lines of communication had recently broken down between them, and that was mostly Young’s fault. He’d been too distracted by the unhappiness of the crew and his efforts to save his marriage and his fury at Telford to spare much attention for Rush. And then Rush had betrayed his trust by lying about that Icarus planet, and Young hadn’t even wanted to look at him anymore. But they were still flock-mates, weren’t they? They needed each other.

Young was beginning to earnestly believe that he was just shit at relationships in general, but he wasn’t losing this one. Rush had better be okay.

The door to the chair room was standing open. Rush was in the chair, lit by a harsh spotlight that turned his skin ghostly pale and picked out the silver strands in his brown hair. His whole body spasmed and writhed as if he were in terrible pain. He was sweating, his eyes were rolling in their sockets, and even his fingertips were jerking and twitching.

For a split second, Young stood in the doorway, frozen in horror at the sight. The crumpled note slipped through his numb fingers and fell to the ground unnoticed. Then he stepped into the room and took stock of the whole scene - Rush, the chair, the bars containing the rows of electrodes, and the clamps securing Rush’s wrists and ankles to the chair. He attempted to pry one of the wrist clamps open, but it wouldn’t budge. And maybe that was just as well. Yanking Rush out of the chair while it was still active might not the answer. Who knew what further damage that would do? But there was a laptop nearby which had clearly been set up for the science team’s use in studying and interfacing with the chair. Young strode over to it, but he found the data on the screen completely unhelpful. It was all in Ancient, for one thing, and there was no big, red, obvious “off” button that he could just click to end this nightmare.

He was still standing there, feeling useless and frantic, when Scott caught up with him. “Oh God,” Scott breathed, staring at Rush in horror.

“Where’s TJ?” Young snapped.

“On her way. And Eli was right behind--”

“I’m here,” Eli panted in the doorway. He looked pink and sweaty and winded from chasing Scott across the ship. Young had never been been so happy to see him.

“Shut this down,” he ordered.

“Yeah, o-okay,” Eli said, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Rush.

Young gave Eli space to access the laptop and went back to Rush. He could barely stand to look at him, and yet he couldn’t look away either, his eyes riveted to that pale, clammy face.

A moment later, the chair deactivated. The electrodes unscrewed themselves from Rush’s bloodied temples and the clamps disengaged from his wrists and ankles. Deprived of those supports, he tipped forward bonelessly into Young’s waiting arms. Young held him close and sank slowly to the floor, as it was abundantly clear that Rush’s legs wouldn’t support him.

Rush’s convulsions soon faded into a steady, full-bodied tremor. Young brushed his sweat-dampened hair away from his face and looked down into his blankly staring eyes. He murmured Rush’s name, but he didn’t really expect an answer and didn’t receive one.

When TJ arrived, she did little more than check Rush’s pulse before urging Young and Scott to carry him to the infirmary. Young found himself almost reluctant to share his burden with Scott. Rush was slight and lightweight, and Young could easily have carried him alone, but he assented to being helped nonetheless.

By the time they had reached the infirmary, Rush’s trembling had ceased completely. They lifted him onto a cot, and he lay there staring distantly at the ceiling throughout TJ’s assessment. He did not make a single movement or utter a single sound. It was as if all the rich vibrancy of his being - the electric current of his willpower and vision - had been ripped away, and only an empty shell remained. Young had stood at the bedsides of many wounded or dying soldiers, but he’d never seen anything that horrified him quite as much as Rush’s wide, glassy eyes and slack, parted lips.

“What’s wrong with him?” he breathed, even though he knew the scope of the question must be far beyond TJ’s power to answer.

“He’s in a deep catatonic state,” TJ said.  “I can’t tell you much more than that right now.”

Young nodded, swallowing hard. Of course she couldn’t. No one on the whole ship was qualified to say what that damn chair had done to Rush. That’s what made the thing so dangerous in the first place. It was a great and terrifying unknown.

He glanced back at Scott, who was still standing beside the cot and staring down at Rush with a look of horrified fascination on his face. Eli, who had followed them to the infirmary, was wearing a similar expression.

“Scott, go back to the gate room and explain the situation to everyone,” Young quietly instructed, “and then let them go back to their quarters. Eli, go to the chair room and figure out what Rush did to himself. Learn anything you can but don’t, for God’s sake, go anywhere near the chair itself.”

“Uh, I wasn’t planning on it,” Eli assured him in a somewhat strangled voice. “Trust me.”

No, Young didn’t suppose _anyone_ would be eager to sit in the chair after this.

After Scott and Eli left the room, Young turned his attention back to TJ. Her arms were wrapped around her middle as if she were hugging herself. She looked shocked and slightly overwhelmed, and he knew exactly how she felt.

“So it was suicide,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“And Rush took the gun? Why?” She asked, and then immediately answered her own question. “So he could do this.”

“Yeah.”

There were a few moments of silence as they both considered the silent, motionless figure on the cot.

“Is there anything you can do for him?” Young finally asked.

TJ blew out a forceful sigh and shook her head slowly. “We could try a high dose of lorazepam, see if that will bring him out of it, but I’m flying blind here.”

He noticed the hint of reluctance in her tone and asked, “How much do you have?”

She pressed her lips together and then admitted, “Not much.”

He nodded, understanding what she wasn’t saying. She didn’t think it would work, and she didn’t want to waste a finite resource. But she wasn’t going to say that out loud. She was going to let him make that decision for himself.

“I know how important he is to you, sir,” TJ said unexpectedly.

Young felt his lips twitch into a humorless smile. The way he and Rush had been at each other’s throats recently, he’d assumed everyone must think they hated each other. But TJ was more perceptive than most. “Do you?” he asked.

“I think so. At least, I know his friendship has meant a lot to you.”

Young closed his eyes and nodded minutely. “Yeah.”

An awkward silence ensued. Then he opened his eyes and said, “It’s not going to work. The Lorazepam?”

“I think it’s a long shot.”

“Right,” Young said. “Don’t waste it.”

“Yes, sir.”

She was looking at him sympathetically now, and he realized that he really needed to be out of this room, away from the unfamiliar husk that had once contained his friend and the too-insightful gaze of the woman who had once been his lover. He itched to escape. And yet there was something he had to be certain of first.

“You’ll keep him under observation?”

TJ seemed surprised by the question. “Of course.”

“Whoever you get in here to relieve your shift, it needs to be someone you trust implicitly. Someone who can keep a pretty big secret if it comes to that.”

“What?” TJ asked. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m telling you that anyone who monitors Rush needs to be able to keep their mouth shut if they see or hear something that they consider unusual.”

She blinked at him, waiting for an explanation he wasn’t planning on giving her just yet. Then she let her arms drop to her sides and squared her shoulders, smoothly transitioning from friend to subordinate in the blink of an eye. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ve always found Corporal Barnes to be reliable and discreet.”

“I think Barnes is a good choice,” Young approved.

“Is there something I should know about my patient, sir?” TJ asked bluntly.

“Maybe. But not yet.”

She narrowed her eyes, but nodded crisply.

“Let me know if there’s any change,” Young said, and then he strode out of the infirmary without another look in the direction of Rush’s cot.


	2. Recognition

Rush’s inner universe was a glorious, volatile, youthful realm full of infant stars and colliding matter and bright technicolor bursts of light. The debris of his all his mental processes was caught up in the gravitational pull of burning new concepts and insights. It was beautiful chaos. Awe-inspiring creation. Flawless maths that would have made him weep if only his tear ducts would respond to the promptings of his emotions. Somewhere in the back of his fractured mind, he knew it couldn’t last. He couldn’t contain all of this new information within himself in its present form. It needed to be sorted, condensed, prioritized, compartmentalized. Its potency and perfection would be sacrificed for the sake of utility. But for now, it was everything. It filled up every corner of his being and there was no room left for anything else.

Part of him wished he could dwell forever in the eye of this violent hurricane of knowledge. Another part of him knew that something very important was missing. He sensed that he was not meant to remain in this state for very long. He was a physical creature, and this realm of pure spirit was not for him.

The first physical thing he became aware of was the bland taste and soupy texture of protein paste on his tongue. It was extremely unwelcome, and he would have prefered to spit it back out again, but his body instinctively swallowed the stuff down without registering his mental objections. Another spoonful was placed into his mouth, and he swallowed that too. Damn it.

Gradually, he noticed that the feedings were happening at regular intervals. They interrupted his focus on the amazing fireworks display within his own head, and he didn’t appreciate that at all. And was it really necessary for them to shovel this slop down his throat so often? One portion every once in a while ought to be sufficient, surely.

And then his vision came online, flinging him into a new reality of blurry shapes and sharp colors and overpowering lights. He gasped and shut his eyes against the new storm of external input. But _oh_ , motor control. That, at least, was useful.

There was a soft, inarticulate murmur from somewhere behind him, alerting him to the fact that he could now hear as well. He refused to open his eyes to see who it was. He doubted he would recognize them anyway. He was still trying to grasp the concept of his own personhood, so there was little available space in his head at the moment for information about other people. Maybe that would change in time. Maybe he even wanted it to, because it still felt like something was missing, and that sensation was becoming increasingly unsettling.

There was another voice now, and it seemed to be responding to the first. Two voices rising and falling and interweaving in an interesting but completely incomprehensible dance of sound, and Rush wasn’t sure if any of it was actually supposed to convey information, or if it was just arbitrary noise.

A moment later, there was a soft click, and some of the brightness peeking in at the seams of his closed eyelids went away. Cautiously, he opened his eyes. Oh yes, that was much better. The light fixtures had been dimmed to a much more comfortable setting. He blinked slowly as the room came into focus. It was a relatively large space with many cots like the one he found himself sitting on, various tables covered in instruments, and two women, both looking at him with hopeful expressions on their faces. One was shorter, with cropped, dark hair and the other was tall and fair. He didn’t know either of them.

The blonde woman said something to him that he couldn’t understand. The cadence of her voice was pleasant, but the sounds she made were nonsensical. He blinked at her, wondering what she expected from him. She frowned and made a few more attempts to speak to him, but he waved her away dismissively. For some reason, she seemed to find that reassuring. Her frown lightened, but she still looked concerned as she turned away to converse with her companion again.

Rush let his attention wander for a few minutes. Then he was confronted with the blonde woman again. She was holding out a small notepad toward him which he immediately recognized as his. He tried to take it from her, but she drew it back out of his reach and tapped pointedly at something that looked like formless doodling on the page. He shook his head at it, puzzled. Was it writing? It must be, or she must _think_ it was, because she seemed to expect him to understand it. He shook his head, and she let out a soft sigh. She started to turn away, but he grabbed her arm and held out his hand for his notepad. She looked dubious, but she gave it to him.

He began to flip through the pages eagerly, pleased to have something in his grasp that he knew belonged to him. There were memories tied to this little notepad. Long nights and perplexing puzzles, breakthroughs and frustration. It ought to have told him everything he needed to know about himself and the things that were important to him. It should have made this strange waking world a little bit less alien. But all he saw, on every single page, was more impenetrable scrawl. He couldn’t make sense of any of it.

That was when he finally realized that something was terribly wrong with him. It wasn’t everyone else who was unintelligible. _He_ was the problem. He couldn’t even make sense of his own calculations. The symbols on the page defied translation. Oh, _fuck_. What had _happened_ to him?

He allowed the notepad to slip from his fingers and fall to the floor. Then he flopped over on his cot and curled himself into a tight ball of misery. He tried desperately to find his way back into that tantalizing inner world of beauty and discovery where he didn’t need symbols to understand the maths because they were already a part of him. But it was out of his reach, now - his transition into alertness seemed to have cut him off from all of that glorious knowledge. He could feel it slipping away, the last little bits of it, leaving him hollow and confused and _wrong_.

He wanted to scream, but even his own voice seemed lost to him.

The two women left him alone to grieve, but he could hear them murmuring to each other in the background. He wondered dully if he was supposed to know who they were. Most likely. He’d probably forgotten them along with his language and maths skills. They certainly acted like they knew him. What a fucking nightmare.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, doing his best to ignore the real world and trying so hard to lose himself in his own mind again. Eventually he managed to tune out the background noises and simply drift in a soothing, half-wakeful state which, if it didn’t quite take him back to that tumultuous realm of revelation within himself, at least allowed him to forget that he was broken.

He was brought out of this doze by the firm touch of a hand upon his shoulder. He jerked away instinctively, then shot a guarded look up at the person who had disturbed him. To his surprise and relief, he found himself staring into the rough-hewn features and worried eyes of a familiar face. He wasn’t entirely sure how he knew this man, but there was no question that he did, and that he was extremely happy to see him. This was a friend.

A memory stirred in the back of his mind. Something about the sky. Something about bursting through clouds into an endless arch of black night studded with glittering stars. Something about wind and speed and freedom and joy. Something about black and gold feathers under his fingertips and the subtle delight of quiet companionship. Somehow, this man represented all these things and so much more that Rush couldn’t quite grasp yet.

The man’s voice was a low rumble, rich and gravelly and precious to Rush, even though he couldn’t understand what he was saying. Rush smiled up at him, pathetically grateful for his presence. His friend smiled back, hesitantly at first and then a bit wider. Rush sat up and leaned forward, bumping his forehead against the man’s chest. His friend’s uniform smelled of sweat and metal and dust and some sort of herbal scent that Rush had noticed on his own clothing as well - some sort of detergent? And something else. Something like the crispness of clean air mingled with hints of wood fire smoke. Something which made Rush feel safe and comforted, but which also made his skin itch with the need to do… something.

His friend froze as if stunned, but then he slowly, carefully wrapped his arms around Rush’s torso and held him close. Rush gave a voiceless chuckle, amused by the man’s awkwardness. He supposed that they didn’t do a whole lot of touching under normal circumstances. That was fine. This was not a normal circumstance. He had no other way to communicate his fondness and relief than this, and his friend would just have to adapt.

 

* * *

 

Young looked down helplessly at the man snuggled up against his chest. Of all the things he’d prepared himself for when TJ called him to the infirmary, this certainly wasn’t one of them. That smile Rush had greeted him with… Young was pretty sure no one had ever been _that_ happy to see him before, and he was still recovering from the upwelling of emotion that it had prompted. He really wouldn’t mind standing like this for a few hours at least, holding Rush and pretending that nothing was wrong.

TJ walked up beside him. He shot her a sidelong glance and noted the mingled look of concern and amusement on her face. “Yeah,” he murmured to her, “so I think it’s pretty obvious that he’s not in his right mind.”

“He’s probably happy to see a familiar face,” TJ said. “I don’t think he recognizes Barnes or me.”

Rush let out a muffled sigh that sounded half frustrated, half resigned. Young lifted his right hand and threaded his fingers through Rush’s feathery brown hair without thinking about it. “So what’s his problem, besides his memory?”

“Acute global aphasia, possible mutism. I haven’t heard him vocalize once since he woke up.”

“Explain the aphasia part,” Young prompted.

“He doesn’t seem to understand spoken or written language at all, he doesn’t seem able to speak or write, and I don’t think he understands his own calculations, either.” She looked down, nudged something on the floor with her boot. It looked like one of Rush’s ubiquitous notepads.

“Shit,” Young said eloquently.

Rush without his memory, without his voice, without his math, without anything that made him _Rush_ , was unthinkable. No wonder he’d looked so dejected when Young had walked in. He’d just lost everything, and he might not even remember why.

Rush lifted his head at that moment to peer into Young’s face curiously. What he saw there seemed to unsettle him slightly. He pulled back, freeing himself from Young’s arms, and then lifted both hands. His palms were out, toward Young, his fingers splayed, his thumbs linked together. His expression was hopeful. At first, Young just blinked at him, confused. Then he understood. Wings. Rush remembered something about wings.

That probably wasn’t good.

Young shook his head discouragingly, hoping to nip that idea in the bud before Rush managed to out himself as an angel in addition to frying his brain, but Rush only smirked at him. Idiot.

Young glanced briefly at TJ to see how she had taken this brief exchange. She appeared slightly befuddled, but mostly pleased. “It’s a good sign that he’s trying to communicate,” she said. “He hasn’t seemed interested up until now.”

Rush looked from Young to TJ, a keen, alert expression in his eyes. Young revised his opinion of Rush’s mental state. He actually seemed pretty sharp at the moment. Memory and language problems aside, he was very like himself. Except for the touching, of course. And hadn’t Rush’s double told Young that he was not opposed to touch on principle, but only by conditioning? Young began to feel slightly more hopeful.

“Is there anything we can do to help him?”

“He’ll need to be assessed by a speech pathologist,” TJ sighed. “I only know of one who has clearance, and she’s got a practice of her own, so I’m not sure she’ll have time to give Rush the kind of intensive therapy he probably needs. Still, we can get her in on the stones to check him out.”

“Do it. Anything else?”

TJ folded her arms across her chest and shot Rush a dubious look. “Well, sir, I’d like to keep him under observation for the rest of the day at least, but I can’t force him to stay put and I can’t talk him into it.”

Good point. And Young was sure he didn’t want Rush wandering around the ship when he couldn’t do math, couldn’t read, couldn’t understand language at all, and when there was a slight possibility that he wasn’t mentally sound enough to know better than to start pushing buttons at random.

Young met Rush’s eyes again, and Rush lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. Young tapped Rush’s chest lightly, pointed down at the cot, and then raised one hand, palm out, in a ‘stop’ gesture. Oh yes, Rush understood that well enough. His expression turned mulish, eyes narrowed and jaw set. In protest, he raised both hands in the ‘wings’ sign again. Young shook his head. Rush huffed and threw up both hands as if he was completely fed up with everything. He probably was, poor bastard.

“Well, he seems thrilled with that idea,” TJ commented dryly. “Do you know what he means by that hand sign he keeps doing?”

“Yes.”

TJ looked about ready to throw up her own hands in disgust at his uninformative answer, but she managed to restrain herself. “Okay,” she said with exaggerated patience. “You would let me know if I was missing information critical to his care, of course.”

“Of course.”

Barnes spoke up suddenly, and the sound of her low, almost masculine voice startled Young. He’d almost forgotten she was in the room. “Does he have to stay here, or can he walk around if someone stays with him?” She walked up to end of the cot, and Rush tilted his head in her direction as if he sensed that she was saying something with important ramifications for him and he was trying to puzzle out what they were.

“Are you volunteering to shadow him?” Young asked. “He’ll give you the slip first chance he gets.”

Barnes’s lips quirked into a confident little smile. “He can try, sir.”

Young smiled back. Then he glanced wordlessly at TJ.

TJ sighed. “Well, I’d still like to keep him here for a while, but if he’s mobile it’s better not to try to restrain him.”

“I agree,” Young said, thinking of how Rush had looked when he’d first seen him, curled into that little heap of dejection. The man would need _some_ form of stimulation to keep him occupied, or he’d end up deeply depressed and frustrated as hell. If Barnes thought she could keep tabs on him, then that was fine. He didn’t like the idea of Rush being shut up in this room any more than Rush did.

 

* * *

 

Young never found out whether Rush tried to get rid of his well-meaning escort. In fact, he didn’t have many opportunities to think about Rush throughout the rest of his shift, as one thing after another cropped up to demand his attention. By the time he began to think about heading to the mess for dinner, it had been nearly eight hours since he’d laid eyes on Rush. If the scientist really had been wandering around the ship during that time, shouldn’t Young have caught sight of him at least once or twice?

He was not reassured when his radio crackled and he heard Corporal Barnes’s voice. “Colonel?”

He grabbed his radio and hit the ‘talk’ button a little more savagely that he needed to. He thought he could actually hear the plastic casing creak slightly, but that might have been his imagination. “Report. Did you lose him, Corporal?”

A brief pause. “No, sir. He’s right here. But you might want to come to the observation deck.”

Shit. “On my way.”

He all but ran to the observation deck, uncertain of what he would find when he got there, but certain that whatever it was, he wouldn’t like it. Barnes’s eternally placid voice had given nothing away, but she must have called him for _some_ reason.

When he arrived, he took one look at Rush and sagged with relief. Whatever other disaster had befallen him, he had _not_ set his wings free for the rest of the crew to oggle. In fact, he was the only person in the room besides Barnes, and he was seated on a bench off to one side with his face in his hands.

“What happened?” Young asked Barnes, who was standing just within the doorway.

“He just started crying, sir. I think he must be overwhelmed,” Barnes said, looking slightly uncomfortable. She was careful not to look in the direction of the weeping scientist, and Young found her effort to give Rush privacy rather touching.

“Or he’s getting some of his memories back,” Young guessed.

“That could be it,” said Barnes, “but he’s been sort of skittish since we left the infirmary. He doesn’t want to be near people. I think all the movement and talking upsets him. He’s sensitive right now. Easily overstimulated.”

In Young’s experience, Rush never really wanted to be around people. That alone didn’t seem to explain… this. The trembling, slumped shoulders, the bowed head. The attitude of utter defeat.

“He didn’t go for any of the technology, sir,” Barnes added. “I think he’s sharp enough to know he shouldn’t mess with any of that right now.”

Young nodded. And maybe that alone explained this breakdown. Rush had lost everything he cared about - his mind, his interests, his calling - and he was completely devastated. It was only natural, really. Add a few of his darker memories to all that, and what sort of person wouldn’t weep?

“In your opinion, Corporal, do you think he needs to be monitored any longer?”

Barnes shrugged. “No more than usual, sir,” she said, apparently without irony. “That’s Rush all right, even if he’s not at his best. I think what he really needs is his own quarters and some rest.” Then her cheeks darkened in a barely-perceptible flush, and she shrugged again. “But I’m not a medic, sir.”

“No, but I think you’re right. Report to TJ, tell her what you told me, and then you’re off shift. Thanks for your help today.”

As Barnes left, Young began to make his way toward the bench where Rush was sitting. He eased down beside him, clasped his hands in his own lap to resist the urge to touch him, and waited.

After a few minutes of silence, Rush lowered his hands, wiped a sleeve across his damp face, and turned a pair of bloodshot eyes toward Young.

“I’m sorry,” Young whispered, feeling his heart twist at the sight of Rush’s stern, haunted gaze. He no longer looked like the vulnerable child he had seemed that morning. There were centuries of experience behind those eyes. If Rush didn’t have all his memories back, he certainly had enough.

Rush let out a soft huff and shrugged, as if he’d understood him. Young supposed that the meaning had been clear enough.

“You’re gonna get through this. You know that, right? You told me angels always heal,” Young said, for his own sake rather than Rush’s. And god, he hoped that it was true. That Rush wasn’t stuck like this for eternity. That would be unthinkably cruel. “You’re already acting more like yourself than you were this morning. I bet you’ll take my head off if I try to touch you right now.”

Rush was watching him with a hungry expression in his dark eyes, and Young suddenly felt guilty for flaunting his communication skills in front of his uncomprehending audience. “Sorry,” he said again.

The corner of Rush’s mouth twitched, as if he was on the verge of flashing one of those wry, lopsided smiles that were so annoying and yet so quintessentially _him_ that they were also completely endearing. He leaned over enough to bump his shoulder against Young’s shoulder as if to say, ‘Yes, you simpleton, I know you mean well, and you’re forgiven.’

Well, that was rather nice. Young returned the shoulder bump, and Rush did not, in fact, take his head off. They sat together like that, side by side, and watched the universe stream past in companionable silence. Neither of them remembered to go to the mess for dinner, but perhaps that was just as well.


	3. Discovery

The infirmary was unnaturally quiet. Chloe peered around curiously, noting the neat rows of medication bottles and jars of medicinal plants along one shelf, a carefully arranged pile of mysterious Ancient medical equipment on a table, and one very overworked medic, half-sitting, half-slumped on a cot and clearly asleep. While Chloe hesitated in the doorway, wondering if she should tip-toe away and return later, TJ began to stir.

“I didn’t mean mean to wake you,” Chloe apologized when TJ lifted her head and focussed bleary-looking eyes on her. “I can go.”

TJ smiled ruefully and shook her head lightly. “No, thanks,” she said, rubbing her eyes, “I shouldn’t have nodded off.”

“You’ve been pulling really long shifts lately,” Chloe said sympathetically, stepping further into the room.

TJ rose from the cot and carefully smoothed the front of her rumpled uniform. “Too many interrupted nights,” she agreed. “It would be nice if we could schedule all disasters for the hours between 0800 and 1700, but I haven’t gotten Colonel Young’s approval on that one yet.”

Chloe wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It was meant to be humorous, of course, but it was such an accurate commentary on daily life on Destiny that she couldn’t bring herself to laugh at it. She settled on a small, pained smile instead, and TJ mirrored the expression.

“Yeah. I can dream,” TJ said dryly. “But how are you? You need something?”

“Actually, I was just coming to ask if you needed any help in here,” Chloe said. Her eyes strayed to the jars on the shelf and the equipment on the table, the spotless sheets of the unoccupied beds and then back to Destiny’s ranking medical officer. TJ’s exhaustion notwithstanding, everything seemed under control in here for the moment. That was both reassuring and disappointing. “I’m just…” she went on to explain falteringly, “I feel useless. I _am_ useless, and I hate it. I’m used to being busy all the time, and now I have nothing to do but sit around and think, and I...”

“You need a distraction,” TJ said quietly. “Yeah, I get it. I would feel the same way. I _do_ feel the same way.”

Chloe nodded, grateful to be understood without having to go into further detail. She still broke down in tears at odd moments, sometimes without any warning at all. She would be eating her dinner, thinking wistfully about real food, and then her unruly memory would flash back to the little diner where she used to get burgers and milkshakes with her dad as a little kid, and that was it. Her heart would clench with pain and her eyes would fill with tears and she’d be shaking and sobbing over her protein paste like a crazy person, making everyone around her feel awkward. She needed other things to fill her head with, and then maybe it would all get a little easier. Maybe.

“Have you talked to Camile about this?” TJ asked.

“Yeah. She’s the one who suggested that I come to you,” Chloe said. “She also said she’d talk to the colonel about putting me on the away team for the next foraging mission. I know how to pick fruit, at least.” She rolled her eyes.

TJ chuckled and ducked her head in a sympathetic nod. “It has to be frustrating, not being able to put your skill set to good use.”

“A lot of people are in the same boat, I know,” Chloe sighed. “But yes, frustrating is the word.”

“Well, I just inventoried my medical supplies, but I do that on a regular basis as we get supplies in and as we use up the ones we have on hand, so you could help me with that next time. Have you talked to Dr. Franklin? He might like some help in his hydroponics lab, now that a few things are actually growing. And I hear you’re teaching Eli yoga? You could invite more people, turn it into a real class if you wanted to.”

“That’s true,” Chloe said, becoming slightly more cheerful as she thought about conducting a class of some sort. She wasn’t proficient enough, really, but she had a feeling she was more so than anyone else on this ship. And running a class was exactly the sort of organizational challenge she enjoyed. Helping in hydroponics wasn’t a bad idea either. She didn’t mind getting her hands a little dirty. It wouldn’t be that different from helping her mom take care of her potted plants, would it? But she wasn’t going to think about her mom right now. That led into dangerous territory.

“One thing you could do for me right now,” TJ suggested suddenly, “is take Rush his lunch. And, if you can possibly manage it, make sure he actually eats it.”

Chloe gratefully pushed away childhood memories and refocused on the here and now. “Is he still refusing to leave his quarters?” she asked, recalling some of the rumors she’d been hearing lately about the lead scientist’s encounter with the interface chair and his resulting condition. She had never really forgiven Rush for bringing them all to Destiny and creating the situation that had led to her dad’s death. She’d hated him at first, and then merely mistrusted and disliked him, but now she couldn’t help feeling a bit of sympathy for him. She thought he had been brave to sit in the chair himself. Self-sacrificing, even, like her dad. Maybe Rush wasn’t as heartless and selfish and cowardly as she had assumed.

“Yeah,” TJ said. “I think it’s just as well. He gets overwhelmed with too many people around.”

“It must be awful, when he can’t talk and he can’t understand anything,” Chloe mused. “I think I’d go crazy if it were me, and it’s probably even worse for him. I heard he can’t even do math.”

TJ confirmed it with a grim nod.

Chloe tried to imagine what it would be like to be stripped of everything - not just her father, not just the time she wished she could be spending with her bereaved mother, but her talents, her faculties, _everything_. She was already about to climb the walls looking for things to do with herself. How much worse must it be for Rush right now?

“Okay,” she said, putting aside any lingering ill will toward the scientist. “I’d be happy to help.”

 

* * *

 

As Chloe carried Rush’s lunch tray down the corridor that led to his quarters, she felt oppressed by the almost unnatural stillness. It was midday, so most crew members who were not on duty were in the mess right now, but _still_ , there was nearly always a bit of activity or noise on the corridors that contained living quarters. True, not many people had their quarters on this hall. It was a bit out of the way, and therefore appropriate for the ship’s more antisocial occupants. So maybe it was the occupants and not the location itself that was to blame for the quiet.

She passed by Sergeant Spencer’s closed door and a superstitious chill crept down the back of her neck. It definitely wasn’t surprising that most people chose not to come down this corridor if they could take another route. She thought she could still feel the lingering heaviness of Spencer’s rage and depression clinging to the air. Come to think of it, this probably wasn’t the best atmosphere for Rush to live in when he had reason enough to despair already. But then, he probably wasn’t as fanciful as she was.

When she reached Rush’s door, she balanced the tray on one hand and knocked with the other. There was no response, but then, she hadn’t expected one from the mute and probably sullen Rush. She palmed the door control and stepped into the room.

And then she froze.

At first, all she saw was the wings. They were poised in the air, arched as if in mid-flap, graceful and powerful and impossible. Swallow’s wings, she thought wildly, only not quite, because each individual feather gleamed a different shade of silvered gray in the shifting starlight. God. Oh _God_. They were gorgeous.

And then she saw Rush, shirtless and tense, poised for some action he didn’t seem to have decided on yet, staring at her from under the shield of his his own wings and waiting for her next move.

She didn’t drop the tray, but it was a near thing. Shaking all over from adrenaline born of shock, she tapped the door control with her elbow, and as the door slid shut behind her, she walked carefully to the bed and set the tray down. Then she turned toward Rush, feeling lightheaded but a little more able to face the situation now that she was unencumbered.

Rush watched her for a few more moments in complete, unearthly stillness. Then he blinked twice and lowered his wings until they were folded against his back. He raised a finger to his lips with a serious, almost imploring expression in his wide brown eyes.

Chloe let out a hysterical laugh. Right. As if something like _this_ could be kept a secret. Was this the real reason why he was hiding away from everyone? Had the chair done this to him somehow? Possibly, but if so, and if it was meant to be a secret, then TJ would never have let Chloe deliver his lunch. Maybe TJ didn’t know about the wings. Maybe they had only just sprouted, and Chloe was the first to see them. Maybe she’d caught Rush in his first exploration of his new attributes, and he was just as startled and mystified as she was.

Rush was still staring at her in that intense way, and she knew he expected some kind of assurance from her that she wouldn’t tell anyone. She wasn’t convinced that she should make that kind of promise. At the very least, Colonel Young needed to know about this. She shook her head slowly.

Rush’s eyes narrowed and he took two quick strides toward her. He was small, but his wings made him look bigger, and she took a step back in instinctive alarm. He stopped abruptly and held up his hands placatingly. He wasn’t going to hurt her. Of _course_ he wasn’t. Wings or no, this was still the scrawny scientist that she had knocked down with one rage-fueled attack after her father’s death. And sure, he hadn’t tried to defend himself then, but that was the point, wasn’t it? There was no reason to categorize him as a threat now when she sure as hell hadn’t been scared of him then. A pair of wings shouldn’t make a difference.

Rush pointed at her, and then at his wings, and pressed his finger to his lips once more. _Don’t tell_. As if she hadn’t understood him the first time.

Chloe looked around for inspiration, and spotting a notepad and pen on a table, she snatched them up. Rush started shaking his head at her, _No, that won’t work_ , but she ignored him and made a quick sketch. Then she turned toward him, lifted her chin and touched her neck as if pointing to an invisible collar, and showed him her crude drawing. It was of the colonel’s insignia: the eagle with outstretched wings, the shield, the olive branch, and the bundle of arrows. Rush blinked at it as if he was having trouble deciphering the image - and maybe it wasn’t a good sketch, but he must have really done a number on his brain if he couldn’t recognize it for what it was - but then he let out an amused huff. He understood.

Rush tapped the picture, pointed at his wings, and nodded. _He knows_.

Oh, thank God. She might have a few doubts about Colonel Young, but she still felt better knowing he was aware of this particular crisis.

If it even _was_ a crisis. Rush was watching her with an expression that was a little bit curious and a little bit shy, and it occurred to her suddenly that the only sign of distress she had seen from him since she’d entered was his concern that she would tell everyone his secret. Now he seemed soothed, as if he understood that she hadn’t planned on telling anyone but the colonel, and he clearly didn’t mind that. Did he like the wings, then? He certainly looked very comfortable with them.

She was really beginning to doubt that the chair had done this to him after all.

“May I touch them?” she asked, stretching a hand toward him to make her meaning clear.

His eyes rested on her for a moment of indecision, and then he nodded.

She approached slowly as if he was some half-wild creature. He looked it right now, with his bared chest and his tousled hair and his sharp, alert eyes. But he didn’t sidle away as she neared. Instead, he unfurled his right wing and drew it forward so it wrapped around his shoulder like a feathery cloak. That brought the mottled gray plumage within reach, so she skimmed her fingers over it delicately. It was as silky as it looked.

“I can’t believe this,” she murmured, delighted. “You have real wings, and they’re _beautiful_. Can you fly with them, I wonder?”

She met his eyes and laughed when she saw the expression of satisfaction on his face. Oh, he liked his wings all right. In fact, she suspected that he was rather vain of them, given how much he seemed to be relishing her appreciation. No longer did he look like a wild animal. He was more like a sleepy house cat, purring as he enjoyed a scratch behind the ears. Who knew that the surly, sharp-tongue scientist had this in him?

She continued to stroke and pet his feathers for a while, getting the impression that he’d let her do it forever if she chose. It must feel nice, like a massage, perhaps, or like having someone play with your hair. But as fascinated as she was, she had promised TJ that she would make him eat his lunch, so eventually she lowered her hand and took a step back.

Rush sighed, blinked sleepily, and folded his wings. Then, to her astonishment, both wings began to sink into his back, submerging under rippling skin like a shipwreck disappearing beneath the waves. And then they were gone completely and he was pulling on his t-shirts as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

“The chair didn’t do this to you,” Chloe whispered with complete certainty. “This is just who you are.”

He looked back at her with such a piercing gaze that it seemed obvious he had somehow understood her tone, if not her words. _Of course_ , his expression seemed to say. _Did you really mistake me for an ordinary human?_

She shook her head slowly. This was was going to take some time to process.

 

* * *

 

The usual midday crowd had thinned out by the time Young reached the mess. His breakfast had been cut short by a small crisis that morning, so he was hungry enough now to eye the slop that Becker was dishing out for him with much greater anticipation than usual. Bowl in hand, he slid onto a bench at an unoccupied table and dug in, thanking God for this rare moment of peace and quiet.

He was staring off into space, thinking about nothing in particular, when Chloe suddenly crossed into his field of vision. She was carrying a tray with a half-eaten bowl of protein paste, and she was moving as if in a trance. Her steps were slow, her expression dazed, her eyes distant. She could almost be sleepwalking, she was so unfocused. But more likely, she had just seen something that had shocked her so much that she hadn’t quite found her way back to reality yet. Young had felt that way often enough in his career to recognize the signs.

He didn’t exactly pride himself on his math skills, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what Chloe’s odd manner and the tray in her hands added up to: Rush.

 _Fuck_.

“Chloe?”

She gave a start, stopped dead in her tracks, then turned to blink at him. “Oh, hi Colonel. Did you say something?” Her voice was slightly breathless.

“Have you eaten?”

She looked down at the tray, and he wondered for a moment if she was going to lie to him. Claim that the tray belonged to her. But then she looked back at him and shook her head slowly.  “Not yet.”

“Grab a bowl and join me,” he suggested in a tone which clearly meant, _That’s an order_.

Chloe didn’t bother to argue. She walked away, and a few moments later she had returned with her own lunch in hand. She slid onto the bench across from him, picked up her spoon, and shot him a curious - but extremely shrewd - look.

“So, I’ve just been to Rush’s quarters,” she said, and Young had to smile a little at her directness. She knew exactly why she had been called over to his table, and she wasn’t going to pretend that she didn’t. Good.

“I thought that might be it,” he answered mildly. “Congratulations on getting him to eat something.”

She dipped her spoon into her bowl and took a bite before saying, “I think I’ve won his approval.” Her gaze was turned downward, at her food, but he could see the little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. His sense of impending doom eased a little. Whatever had happened in Rush’s quarters, she apparently considered it a positive thing. As long as she wasn’t prepared to go running up and down the halls screaming about the inhuman creatures dwelling amongst them, there was hope.

“And how is Rush today?” he asked.

Instead of answering his question, she set her spoon down at looked at him squarely, seriously. “You know about him, right? What he is?” No beating around the bush at all. Again, he found himself pleased by her candidness. She liked plain speaking? Great. So did he.

He shot a casual look around, but there was no one close enough to hear their conversation. Still, he kept his voice low as he answered, “Yes.”

“So what is he? Some sort of alien?”

“Some sort,” he agreed. It was accurate enough.

Chloe leaned forward, eyes shining. “Where did he come from? Do you know?”

“Nowhere near here, at any rate,” Young said, because trying to tell her that Rush came from the place where human souls went after death didn’t seem like the best policy, somehow.

Chloe accepted his vague answer with good grace. “How long have you known?”

“I found out on Icarus Base.”

“Wow…” she shook her head slowly, her eyes going distant again for a few seconds. She picked up another spoonful of paste, held it in midair for a moment, then set the spoon back into the bowl as if she had completely forgotten what she was doing.

It was actually rather cute to see how pleased and overwhelmed she was by this new information. Young began to relax a bit more. She was a Harvard graduate and a Senator’s assistant. She was intelligent, responsible, and could probably be trusted with a secret. If someone had to find out about this, Chloe wasn’t the worst candidate by far.

“I assume you saw his wings?” he asked.

She met his eyes once more and her lips curved into a wide smile. “Aren’t they beautiful? He let me touch them!”

 _Of course he did. Grooming whore_ , Young thought ungenerously. “Guess he trusts you,” was his much more polite answer.

“It did feel like an honor,” she agreed, happily unaware of his little stab of jealousy. “It was an accident that I saw them. I knocked on his door, but I didn’t give him enough time to put them away before I walked in. I should have waited, but I knew he couldn’t speak, so I thought… Anyway, there he was, with those incredible wings, looking like something out of one of Eli’s video games. It was amazing! I still can’t believe it.”

Young had to smile at her enthusiasm. “But,” he cautioned, “as far as anyone else knows, this never happened.”

“I know,” she said hastily. “I told Rush - I mean, I used drawings and hand gestures - that I had to tell you. He indicated that you already knew. But I won’t tell anyone else.”

He nodded. He believed her. And what an odd relief it was, knowing that someone else knew and didn’t mind. A human knew Rush’s secret - not Young’s, not yet - and was okay with it. In fact, she seemed _thrilled_ about it. He couldn’t count on everyone having that reaction, but still, what if? What if he and Rush didn’t have to hide what they were all the time, meeting in secret to groom each other, dreaming about soaring through the clouds every night with no hope of actually spreading their wings and flying together as they had on Icarus Base. What if?

“Will you visit him occasionally?” he asked softly. “I wish I could spend more time with him. He’s so bored, but he can’t stand to be around a lot of people right now. And without him, it seems like the science team has a minor disaster on their hands every few hours that demands my input for whatever reason.”

“I’d love to,” she said earnestly. “I’ve been looking for ways to help out around the ship. I still want to go on that next foraging trip, because God knows I could use a little fresh air, but other than that, I don’t have many demands on my time.” She rolled her eyes. “Like, practically none.”

“Great. Thanks, Chloe.”

Young mused that this probably meant Chloe would soon be as intimate with Rush’s wings as he was. No, it _definitely_ meant that. Rush was nothing if not an opportunist. She’d be a grooming pro by the end of the week. But that was fine. There was no reason why it should bother him. She was going to make his life a lot easier by keeping Rush occupied.

It was a positive development, and he was _not_ jealous.

Young deliberately turned his attention back to his lunch, but it had lost what little appeal it had ever possessed by congealing into a sickening, banana-flavored lump.

Damn it.


	4. Taken

It was really amazing how fast things could fall apart, given how long it took to rebuild. A half hour ago, Young had left Scott sitting hunched on the corner of his bed, head bowed and eyes closed and fists clenched as if he couldn’t decide whether to start screaming and throwing punches or burst into horrified, frustrated tears. Greer was with him, thank God, because Young didn’t have it in him to provide the support that the lieutenant undoubtedly needed right now.

He had no idea where Eli was. The kid had gone as white as paper and looked just as likely to tear apart. Then he’d vanished, probably to his own little nook to grieve in his own solitary way surrounded by his electronics. He’d bristled at TJ’s attempt to reach out to him and provide comfort, snapping harshly before bolting. TJ’s eyes had been red, but then, she always took losses hard.

They had lost one of their own today, but there was no reason to believe that she was actually dead. And that… that almost made it worse. The questions, the toxic blend of hope and despair, the complete and utter helplessness, that was what made Young’s hands shake as he unscrewed the lid on a bottle of Doctor Inman’s foul-smelling brew and took a long, desperate gulp.

Fuck, that tasted like shit. _Good_. He hoped it made him sick.

His quarters were dark except for the shifting glow of distorted starlight through his window. He wasn’t on shift right now, but he knew he should be out there anyway, walking the halls, talking to the scared and confused crew members who would need the reassurance that only strong, visible leadership could provide. Instead, he was sitting on his couch, drinking and quietly coming undone, because he could only bear the burden of his own inadequacy for so long before it became impossible to pretend he was in control any longer.

He was supposed to guide and protect these people. In fact, he was beginning to believe he had been designed for that very purpose. How could it go so wrong again and again? Senator Armstrong, Palmer, Curtis, Gorman, Spencer, Rush… and now Chloe. He had failed them all in different ways.

In the stillness, he could hear footsteps in the hall. He hoped they would just keep walking, leave him to his misery, but they came to a halt just outside the closed door of his quarters. The door opened, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Rush peering into the room.

Oh, fuck. How had he forgotten Rush? That should have been his first stop after he went off shift. He’d been so caught up in his own inner turmoil that he hadn’t even looked in on his flock-mate, who must now be confused at having been left alone all day.

Rush took one look at him, frowned deeply, and stepped into the room. After closing the door, he went sit on the coffee table in front of Young. He pointed to the bottle in Young’s hands, brows lifting in query.

“You won’t like it,” Young muttered. “Hell, I don’t even like it.” But he handed the bottle over anyway.

Rush accepted it, sniffed at it, and scrunched up his nose in distaste. Young expected him to hand it back, but Rush surprised him by taking a long drink of the stuff anyway. He didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t flinch at the taste, either. Maybe he’d had worse.

“Just don’t tell TJ,” Young said. “I’m guessing alcohol and brain damage don’t mix well.”

Rush took another sip and then returned the bottle to Young. Then he reached into his inner vest pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen. He jotted something down on the pad, then turned it so that Young could see what was on the page.

It was just a sad face, followed by a… was that a question mark? Yes, yes it was. A few days earlier Rush had been having trouble recognizing pictures, let alone punctuation. This evidence of his slow but steady recovery was like a tiny sunbeam shooting through the leaden sky of Young’s mood. He reached out, ran his thumb over the mark as if to assure himself that it was truly there, that it wasn’t a smudge on the page that could be rubbed away.

Rush let out a huff of impatience.

“Yeah, I’m upset,” Young sighed, nodding. “But I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

Another huff, and then Rush was scribbling on his notepad again. Young watched him from over the rim of his bottle as he took another long drink. His tongue was already becoming deadened to the taste.

Rush showed him the page again. Now there was a rough sketch of a woman next to the sad face and question mark. Young didn’t have to look very closely to know it was meant to be Chloe. He had known that would be Rush’s next question.

“She’s gone,” Young said hollowly. “I let her go to the planet today and she didn’t come back.”

He could still hear Scott’s coming voice over the radio, frantic and barely keeping it together as he explained that their foraging team had been ambushed by aliens and that Chloe had been taken. The aliens had retreated to a small spacecraft and launched before a rescue mission could even be thought of. God only knew where they had gone. Even if Young had some way of knowing the aliens’ destination, he had no ability to change Destiny’s course to pursue them. With little time left on the clock, all he had been able to do was to recall the away team and give Chloe up for lost. Another casualty. Another failure.

He couldn’t say all that to Rush, but he had to try. He took the pad and pen from Rush’s outstretched hand and did his best to draw a classic Roswellian alien, only to realize his mistake when it ended up looking too much like an Asgard. Damn it. He scratched that out and went in a more Ridley Scott direction on his second attempt. Yeah, that couldn’t be mistaken for a nice alien. Whether it was accurate, he had no idea. The surviving members of the away team had been too shaken to give much of a description of the aliens they had fought. It would have to do, though. Young paused. He thought about drawing an ‘x’ over Chloe’s picture, but that would give the impression that she was dead, and while that might actually be kinder than the truth, Rush wouldn’t appreciate being lied to. So Young simply drew an arrow from his alien sketch to Chloe, and showed the result to Rush.

Rush stared at the picture for a long time as if he couldn’t make any sense of it. Then his breathing quickened, and his eyes widened. He raised his head with a snap, tapped on the page with one finger over Young’s drawing of the alien, then raised his brows. What did that mean? Did he think Young was making it up? Young had no idea how to respond. This was a shit way of trying to communicate with someone, and it was worse with Rush, because they always had different ways of approaching any given subject or situation. Making Rush understand him on a good day was hard enough. Doing it with crappy drawings was a nightmare.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Young growled, raising a hand to cover his eyes. He didn’t need this. He needed to crawl into his bottle of potent sludge masquerading as gin and not emerge until the universe gave up its grudge against him.

There was a soft rustling noise, and then the next thing he felt was Rush sitting down beside him on the couch and sliding close until their thighs and shoulders touched. Young let his hand drop from his eyes and allowed himself to lean into that warm, reassuring presence. He didn’t even protest when Rush eased the bottle out of his hand and helped himself to a another drink. The alcohol wouldn’t go nearly as far between them, and maybe that was Rush’s strategy. He couldn’t keep Young entirely sober, but if he sat and drank with him like this, he’d keep him from getting completely trashed.

Fine. That was fine. They could mourn together, and perhaps the pain, like the alcohol, would go down a little easier for being shared.

 

* * *

 

Rush sat in bed with his back to the wall and his notepad in hand, flipping through pages of pictures and symbols until he found a blank space in which to practice writing. It was getting easier to recognize the letters and numbers and punctuation that Chloe had written down for him to study. Some of the shapes were beginning to look familiar, and sometimes he even thought he could recall what they would sound like when they were spoken aloud… but then the memory would slip away again before it was fully realized. Still, he knew he was making progress, and he wasn’t going to stop now just because his tutor was no longer around to help him.

The speech pathologist that TJ had brought on board to assess him had been of minimal help, and Rush hadn’t particularly liked her. She had treated him like a child, and the Sovereign knew he didn’t need to deal with condescension from a human. He had been speaking languages that would make her sob with joy at a time when her own native tongue was in its infancy. When she had left, he’d made it clear that he didn’t want to see her again. He’d heal without her help, thank you very much.

His sessions with Chloe had been much more productive. He liked her sweet blend of reverence, patience, and humor very much, and he had appreciated that she took the initiative in helping him with his language skills. She did it so naturally that at first he didn’t realize that he was dealing with a woman on a mission. When he did grasp that fact, he was amused and intrigued and filled with a heady sense of hope. Young, Lieutenant Johansen, and Corporal Barnes had all treated him as an object of sympathy. Chloe treated him as a fascinating new project, and as a scientist and inventor, he could appreciate that attitude.

He missed her. It had been a week now since she had been taken by aliens - the nature of whom he was frustratingly unable to discover - and he still felt sick with worry and grief every time he thought of her. It had been a very long time since he had cared about a human this much, and there was a _reason_ for that, damn it.

Humans died. Their bodies rotted and their unfathomable souls migrated across the barriers between dimensions to take their rightful place in the sunlit realm of Rush’s origin. But even if he could go back there - even if the Sovereign welcomed him home - he wouldn’t be able to see or feel or hear or interact in any way with the souls that lived there. He wouldn’t ever reunite with Gloria, because she was pure spirit and he was pure matter. If Chloe was now dead, she was lost to him forever too. Mortals were terrifying, that way.

He picked up his pen, trying to fend off the intrusive thought that Chloe was already lost forever, dead or alive. They couldn’t rescue her. Somewhere in Rush’s healing brain might be the master code that would let him take full control of Destiny, steer her in any direction he pleased, but even if he could access that information and put it to use, he still wouldn’t know where to find Chloe. She was gone.

The best way to honor her memory was to continue the work that she had started. So he blotted out every other thought from his mind and set to work painstakingly copying the letters she had taught him.

He had just printed out C-A-T (was that a word? that looked like it might be a word) when a deafening _boom_ broke his concentration and make him jerk upright. He dropped his legs over the side of his bed and sat there poised for action, staring at the window as he waited for any further sound. There was another loud, reverberating boom of impact, and this time he felt the ship shudder with it. Two small ships of unfamiliar design streaked across his window. He leapt to his feet and tracked them with his eyes as they aimed a volley of bright weapon’s fire at Destiny’s hull.

Shit. Oh _shit_. His ship was under attack, and Rush was completely useless.

But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe there was _something_ he could do. He could point, gesture, make himself understood to a degree, and he wasn’t confused or muddled anymore. He knew what was happening, and he had some idea of what to do about it. And even if all attempts at communication failed, he still wasn’t going to watch the battle from his quarters. He was going to stand at Young’s side while they faced this threat together.

He tucked his notepad and pen into the inner pocket of his vest and made for the door. The corridor outside his quarters seemed deserted at first, but as he broke into a run he spotted Dunning stepping out from an intersecting corridor and holding up a hand for him to stop. Rush skidded to a halt, confused, and then he heard it. There were strange, ominous sounds coming from just over his head. When he looked up, he saw a bright arc of superheated metal where _something_ was cutting its way through the hull. _Fuck_.

Rush leapt back just in time to avoid being struck by the perfect circle of metal which crashed to the deck. Then he looked up again.

He should have just run, of course. Any creature smart enough to exploit weak spots in Destiny’s overworked shields and punch holes through her hull with such perfect efficiency was bound to be dangerous, and even at his best, Rush was no warrior. But he was a scientist, and his curiosity was as much a part of him as his wings.

By the time he’d caught his first look at translucent blue skin, elongated hands and rubbery black uniforms, it was far too late to escape. The light dazzled his eyes and stunned his senses and he was paralyzed, rooted to the spot. Then he was floating, rising up into the waiting embrace of spindly arms and claw-tipped fingers. He thought he might be terrified, but he wasn’t sure, because he was completely numb.

Dunning was shouting below, and Rush thought he heard Young’s name. Then he felt cold fingertips sweep across his forehead, a sudden spike of pain, and then nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

“Colonel Young, this is Airman Dunning. Please respond.” Dunning’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere in the control interface room and the all-too-frequent sounds of enemy fire connecting with Destiny’s hull.

Young’s eyes were on Eli’s sweaty, terrified face as he reached for his radio. He didn’t blame the kid for freaking out. From the moment he’d spotted the alien ship, Young had known things were about to get ugly. As much as he’d like to believe that the universe was mostly populated by kind aliens who only wanted to be friends, his experience with the SGC had taught him otherwise. And given how recently one of his crewmembers had been kidnapped by aliens, he was not disposed to expect good things from this encounter. For all he knew, these were the same creatures who had taken Chloe, and even if they weren’t, their one-word greeting - “Surrender” - had not exactly been promising.

Now Destiny was under attack, and everything was going to hell _fast_. He didn’t have time for distractions, but he’d served with Dunning for years and knew that particular tone of voice. That was Dunning’s ‘shit is going down, sir’ voice.

“This is Young. Report.”

“Sir, there’s been a hull breach on Rush’s corridor. Rush was taken by the aliens.”

A wave of horror washed over Young’s whole body and rocked him back on his heels. For a moment he could barely register the meaning of Dunning’s words, only the howling fury that they provoked.

Oh, oh God. _Rush_.

Eli was staring at him over the edge of his console, pale and shocked. They were taking heavy fire, the shields were barely holding on, only a small percentage of the ship’s weapons actually worked, and now the closest thing the boy had to a mentor was gone. He looked crushed and scared and desperate.

“Copy that,” Young murmured into his radio and then lowered it, still watching Eli.

“That’s not good,” Brody commented. It was so gross an understatement that Young almost burst into hysterical laughter. _Not good_? This was nightmarish. This was the kind of thing that happened and you couldn’t take it in, couldn’t believe it, it was just that catastrophic.

Not Rush. _Anyone_ but Rush. He knew he was a bastard for thinking it, but he didn’t give a damn about that right now. Just… not Rush. He couldn’t… he didn’t know how to...

Through the red haze clouding his vision, he watched as Eli drew in a shuddering breath, looked back at the screen in front of him, and frowned in bewilderment. “Wait… they’re falling back. They’re retreating!”

Young forced his body to move, came around to stand at his shoulder. Eli was right. The enemy fighters were breaking off their attack one by one and flying back toward their main ship.

“They have what they wanted,” Young muttered under his breath, his heart sinking like a stone. “The attack was a distraction.” That almost made it worse.

“What?” Eli looked up, eyes wide with disbelief.

The question was, were the aliens looking for just any prisoner, or had they targeted Rush specifically? Was it possible that they knew Rush was special? If they were the same aliens who kidnapped Chloe, then the answer was likely _yes_. Because Chloe had known. Chloe had seen him in all his glory.

Young lifted his radio again. Scott and Greer had the shuttle, and he needed it back _right now_. It was his only chance. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I need you to end pursuit and fall back to Destiny.”

“But, sir…”

“Do _not_ engage. I repeat, do not engage. Rush may be on board one of those ships.”

There was a pause, and then, “Yes, sir.”

Young stared at the screen at all the retreating dots, contemplating his chances of getting the shuttle to that ship unscathed, docking, fighting his way through hordes of aliens, somehow locating Rush (and possibly Chloe) and rescuing him (them), fighting his way back to the shuttle, and then making it safely back to Destiny. It was laughable. Impossible. Irresponsible even to think of it. And yet he _was_ thinking of it.

A strange sense of calm washed over him, covering his doubts and filling him with purpose. A voice in his head that sounded like his own, but not _quite_ , whispered, _What are a few aliens to you? Haven’t you faced worse? Haven’t you brought whole armies to their knees singlehandedly? You were made to protect and conquer_.

Which sounded like complete nonsense, but it also sounded like the truth. He could do this. He wasn’t sure how just yet, but somehow, he knew he could.

And then even that flare of hope was snuffed out. Before Scott and Greer even had time to dock the shuttle, Eli let out an inarticulate sound of warning.

“What is it?” Young demanded.

“Looks like all their fighters are docked, and I don’t think they’re planning to stick around. I think they’re gearing up to--”

The icon representing the enemy ship on the screen flickered and winked out suddenly.

“--jump to FTL,” Eli finished.

Young stared at the screen in stunned silence for a long, long time.

“Well, at least they left us in one piece,” Brody said with a lamentable lack of tact. “But why would they attack us just to take Rush?”

Young said nothing. There was nothing _he_ could say. He couldn’t even think. A fog had rolled into his brain, muffling his internal screams and granting him a measure of moment of illusory peace. It wasn’t real. None of this was real. He hadn’t screwed up this badly and lost his flock-mate, his friend, the only person in the whole universe who understood him and made him feel whole. If he went to Rush’s quarters now he’d still be there, bored and fretful and eager to be groomed. It would be fine. Everything was fine.

“Colonel?” Eli said tentatively.

No, no it wasn’t. It wasn’t fine. It would never be fine again.

Rush was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and be sure to visit me on [Tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/) for writing updates and general fandom squeeing.


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